


black magic boy (part one)

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Child Death, Druids, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 18:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “We have a great many things to accomplish together my Lord,” says Patrick, ignoring Jonathan’s anger. Heleers, and Jonathan wants to hit him, wipe the smirk from the boy's face with his fist, but he is a king, and he cannot bring himself to raise his hand to strike the boy."I told you to get off your knees.”Patrick ignores him. He rakes his eyes from Jonathan’s thighs up to his face, soft mouth turning into a grin as they lock eyes. “You will sire me strong sons, my Lord.”“Sons?” Jonathan sputters. “Ihavea son.”





	black magic boy (part one)

**Author's Note:**

> please take note that this fic takes place is an alternate medieval timeline, and that the child death and stillborn tags are stereotypical of the medieval ages--most children died shortly after birth, were stillborn, or died in horrific accidents very young. a family could have ten children and only one would make it to adulthood. none of the children's deaths are described in graphic detail.

Jonathan trusts the druids.

They are magic users, and he has no qualms against magic users. They are good, honest, people who live on the outskirts of Chicago and sometimes use their magic to water the crops when the farmers get too busy and subsequently keep the whole of Chicago from starving to death. Sometimes they take up arms in Jonathan’s wars, giving him advantages against bigoted kings who persecute the druids and are defenseless against their magic.

He’s thankful for the druids, and asks nothing of them except that they pay their taxes on time and don’t turn people into frogs or any other various animals. It’s hard to hold a man accountable when he is a pig.

“We have a gift for you,” says Elfed, the leader of the druids. She looks quite giddy about this gift, which, in all honesty, can’t bare well for Jonathan. The last gift he received from the druids was Sunyei, the nearly three-ton elephant cow who still roams the fields near the castle, being an absolute menace to the farmers. Jonathan adores Sunyei—how could he _not_ —but he’s still never quite figured out _why_ the druids gave her to him in the first place.

“It’s not an elephant this time,” says Elfed.

“Oh?” says Jonathan, trying to hide his disappointment. He doesn’t know what to do with one elephant, let alone two, but he thinks Sunyei might be a bit lonely.

Elfed’s eyebrows come together. “Do you want another elephant?”

“Sunyei’s a bit lonely,” admits Jonathan.

“You can’t _seriously_ be asking for another elephant,” says Katherine, his Queen, who’s been quiet this whole time, but now she’s giving Jonathan her disappointed mother look.

“He’s not getting another elephant,” interrupts Elfed before Jonathan can reply.

Jonathan’s hoping for something small this time. Possibly a dog, even a cat. Maybe a new stallion.

The druids give him a boy.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

“That’s a _boy_ ,” says Jonathan a bit stupidly.

The boy in question glares at him.

“He is born of the oldest magic,” says Elfed, looking proud as she holds the boy by his shoulders. “He will conquer you _worlds_ , my Lord.”

“Worlds?” repeats Jonathan.

“What is he, _twelve_?” says Katherine.

The boy turns his bright blue eyes on Katherine. He has the soft, young face of a boy who’s never seen battle, unmarred from swords or knives or fists. He looks no different from a kitchen boy, but Elfed the Queen does not lie.

“Worlds?” says Jonathan again.

“Yes, my Lord,” Elfed answers, nudging the boy forward. “Patrick can see worlds mere mortals cannot.”

Patrick looks at Jonathan, mouth a small pout. “You can see these worlds?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” answers Patrick, voice low, soft.

Jonathan relaxes into his throne, studying the boy in front of him. Perhaps another elephant would have been an easier gift to accept. “We do not have slaves in Chicago, Elfed. You know this.”

Elfed smiles, shaking her head. “Patrick would never be your slave, my Lord.”

“But you are giving him to me?”

“There is a prophecy, my Lord,” explains Elfed, nudging Patrick forward again.

“You said that about the elephant,” interrupts Katherine.

“Yes, well,” says Elfed, waving her hand dismissively. “There is a prophecy that says that Chicago’s king will conquer this world and the next.”

“The afterlife?” says Jonathan.

“There are more worlds than just this one and the afterlife,” says Patrick, looking wistful.

Jonathan has no desire to conquer _this_ world, let alone whatever other worlds the druids claim to exist. He will fight wars if he must, but he likes to keep the peace. There are innocent men’s lives at risk when kings start wars, but Jonathan cannot reject this gift; angering the druids would not bode well for Chicago. He has seen the way the druids pull lightning from the sky and flood battlefields with just a flick of their wrists. They could destroy him so easily if they truly wished to.

“He will have a home here,” he settles on, eyes fixed on the boy before him.

Patrick tilts his head and grins.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Jonathan isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with Patrick, so he arranges for the boy to have a room and a job in the kitchens. It’s beneath a druid to do the manual labor of a servant, but the boy doesn’t seem to have any complaints. He does what’s asked of him, earning endearing nicknames from the kitchen staff like _darling duck_ and _little mouse_.

It only takes a fortnight for Patrick to become a beloved fixture in Jonathan’s household, which is an annoyance to Jonathan, because he _still_ doesn’t know what to do with the boy.

Patrick has been complacent so far, but the druids hold to their prophecies tightly—Patrick will come to him eventually, demanding that he fulfill the prophecy, and Jonathan will have to tell him no because he has no desire to be a king of worlds. He already feels drawn too thin trying to be a good and just king to a kingdom that isn’t just a thumb mark on a map. Chicago is large, larger than the neighboring kingdoms, and Jonathan must keep all corners safe and protected while trying to squash rebellions and implement taxes.

He is not a greedy man, nor a stupid one. He knows that his downfall will be expanding his kingdom too far beyond his immediate reach, but telling the druids _no_ spells even greater trouble for Chicago; his army is powerless against druid magic.

But the little mouse seems content in his role in the kitchens and demands nothing of Jonathan. He seems happy for all Jonathan can tell in the rare times that he sees the boy; Patrick is always smiling, a gaggle of servants’ children following behind him as he goes about his chores, but when he spots Jonathan across the hall, that smile fades into a thoughtful, wistful look, like the boy is seeing the worlds Elfed spoke of. He never approaches Jonathan, only stares, big blue eyes going misty until a child grabs his hand, pulling him from his thoughts.

Patrick is perplexing, which sends a jolt of annoyance down Jonathan’s spine every time he catches sight of the boy. Patrick’s happiness seems to diminish in his presence, which is insulting—Jonathan has given the boy a home, and his job in the kitchens is more comfortable than a job mucking stalls.

Patrick reacts to his presence like Jonathan has sucked the life out of him.

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Jonathan allows Patrick’s continued agony in his presence to last another two weeks before he summons the boy to his antechamber.

Patrick has that wistful look in his eye as he stands before Jonathan, hair a mess from the wind or maybe even from Sunyei, who like everyone else in the castle has taken a strong liking to the druid. The children in the castle used to be afraid of the intimidating elephant, but with Patrick by their side they take pleasure in feeding her corn.

“My Lord,” says Patrick, head tilted, lips red and slick from where he’s been licking at them, waiting for Jonathan to speak. It’s very distracting.

“Are you unhappy?” Jonathan blurts, very un-kingly.

“My Lord?”

“Are you unhappy?” Jonathan repeats.

“Unhappy, my Lord?”

Jonathan can’t outright say _you look ready to jump from the battlements whenever I look at you_ because that would be even more un-kingly than the first thing he said. “Do you wish to return to your people?”

Patrick stops his inane oral fixation to fix his gaze on Jonathan, eyes clear. “I wish to stay with you, my Lord,” he says, stepping forward, closer to Jonathan than any mere servant would ever dare, and then he drops, hands on Jonathan’s knees as he kneels. “I belong to you now, my King.”

Jonathan stares.

“Get off your knees!” he demands, blood boiling. “You are not a common _whore_!”

“We have a great many things to accomplish together my Lord,” says Patrick, ignoring Jonathan’s anger. He _leers_ , and Jonathan wants to hit him, wipe the smirk from the boy's face with his fist, but he is a king, and he cannot bring himself to raise his hand to strike the boy.

“I told you to get off your knees.”

Patrick ignores him. He rakes his eyes from Jonathan’s thighs up to his face, soft mouth turning into a grin as they lock eyes. “You will sire me strong sons, my Lord.”

“ _Sons_?” Jonathan sputters. “I _have_ a son.”

Patrick’s mouth goes into a thin line. “Yes, you do.”

Jonathan’s breath stills. He doesn’t like the way Patrick’s face has changed back to that wistful look, like he knows something about Charles.

Jonathan knows that Charles is weak. The boy is small, lungs and heart frail, but he is the only child of his that has survived childhood—so far. “What do you know about my son?”

Patrick snaps out of his wistfulness. “He will bring you great happiness.” He smiles, using his hands on Jonathan’s knees to stand. “All of your sons will bring you great happiness.”

“Queen Katherine—”

Patrick ignores him, leaning forward to kiss the edge of Jonathan’s mouth. He smiles then, pulling away. “I’ll be waiting for you when you are ready, my Lord.” He squeezes Jonathan’s hand, leering, before he exits the room without being dismissed, leaving Jonathan sputtering.

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Jonathan has no desire to make more sons.

 _Well_ , he _does_ because Charles is weak and feeble and it does not matter how much Jonathan loves his son; Charles is not destined to become the next king.

But he doesn’t want to make sons because _a druid told him to_.

Katherine finds the whole thing hilarious.

They have tried fruitlessly for more sons—for _any_ child—but after the death of Charles’s younger sister, Katherine’s womb has remained barren.

Jonathan has never voiced it, but he is glad; there are only so many children a man is supposed to lose in one lifetime.

“He _is_ very pretty,” says Katherine, the corner of her mouth turned upward in a playful grin. “A bit young for you though, dear husband.”

Jonathan sputters. “I am not going to—”

“I think it would be good for you,” Katherine interrupts, nodding to herself, long dark hair braided over her thin shoulder. She cocks her head in the direction of the nursery where Charles lay, taking a midday nap. “Charles could do with siblings.”

“They would be _bastards_.”

“But they would be _sons_.”

“Katherine,” sighs Jonathan.

Katherine smiles, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I cannot give you any more children, Jonathan.” She sighs, giving him a sharp look which means that she does not want his pity, or his anger, or his sadness. They have been over this, and although she still welcomes him into her bed, her womb remaining empty is the best gift that the world has given them, besides Charles. “Fuck the boy, husband. He is a druid. Perhaps his children will be stronger than mine.”

She takes a moment, collecting herself. “Honestly, you really have no choice. The boy can see the future, you know. You already know that you’ll end up fucking the boy and having countless bastards.”

Jonathan glares, feeling trapped. “You don’t know that.”

Katherine waves her hand dismissively at him. “Go away. Your inability to accept your fate is tiring.”

“A mistress is supposed to anger you,” says Jonathan, defeated, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

Katherine accepts the kiss, tilting her head to receive it. “He wouldn’t be the first, now would he, dear?”

Jonathan can’t argue against that. “You’ve had more than me.”

“I told you to go away,” answers Katherine, pouting. “You tire me.”

“I will tire you tonight,” smirks Jonathan, only because he can, barely managing to dodge the slap Katherine sends his way.

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Jonathan has no plans to fuck the boy despite Katherine’s encouragement and whatever future the druid can see. He hasn’t been entirely faithful to Katherine, and neither she to him, but he has no desire for bastards, not anymore. He had one bastard son, born only months after the death of their third son, but he too had died two months shy of his first birthday.

(Katherine has had lovers of her own, and Jonathan’s under no delusion that all of her children were fathered by him, but legitimate or not, all of them have died too.)

Even if he were to give in to temptation, his heart wouldn’t be able to take any more death. Losing a child is like no other pain in the world, even if a child doesn’t live long enough to take its first breath.

“I know what you fear,” says Patrick, cornering Jonathan one day.

There is nowhere for Jonathan to go, seeing as Sunyei is blocking his path and there is no moving an elephant when she does not wish to be moved. She rumbles when she sees Patrick, moving Jonathan gently out the way to touch the little mouse’s face with her trunk.

“I am a king,” Jonathan answers. “I fear nothing.” Which is a lie. He might be a king but he is also a man, and there are many things he fears, but he cannot let the druid harlot know that.

“All men fear something,” says Patrick, seeing right through him. His eyes are clear when he looks at Jonathan, bright and amused. “I understand why you fear what you cannot trust.”

Jonathan busies himself with examining Sunyei’s side. The elephant continues to rumble, ears flapping minutely as she busies herself with grazing.

“I have never lost a child—” starts Patrick, which makes Jonathan jerk his head.

“Are you even old enough to have a child?” he snaps.

Patrick’s mouth goes into a thin line, before, “I am much older than you think, Your Grace.”

Jonathan snorts his disbelief, hoping that the boy will take that as a dismissal, but Patrick will not leave. “Isn’t there some other king that you can tempt?” he asks bitterly as Sunyei tries to dig into his pocket with her trunk. He has no treats for her, but swatting her away has never worked.

“The prophecy says that you, and _only you_ , will sire me strong sons. I will give myself to no other.” Patrick says this matter-of-factly, voice strong, chin high in stubbornness. “I will bear the sons of no other king, let alone no other man.”

Jonathan stares at the boy. “Are you _mad_?”

Patrick holds his chin just the inch higher. “The prophecy did not say that you would be so stubborn.”

“And did your prophecy tell you to through yourself at your king like a common whore?”

Patrick’s lips go into a thin line of anger. “The whores must be different in Chicago than they are in the druid lands, my Lord, for I have yet to spread my legs for you.”

“But you will spread your legs for me, won’t you, boy?” Jonathan says bitterly, watching the way Patrick’s face turns to steel.

“I will spread my legs as my king demands of me,” says Patrick, voice grave, eyes narrowed in anger. “I only hope that my king can get it up well enough to perform when the time comes.” And with that the boy turns on his heel, stomping away, leaving Jonathan to gape at his retreating back.

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Jonathan does not see the little mouse again for a week. The boy sticks to the kitchens and to entertaining the gaggle of servants’ children who adore him. That is all fine by Jonathan, who wants nothing to do with the boy or his prophecies or his womb made for strong sons.

He is a blight upon Jonathan’s thoughts, upon his kingdom, and he wishes for the boy to return to Elfed upon his own free will, but the boy is stubborn and will not. He will stay, demanding Jonathan fulfill a bullshit prophecy that he longer believes is real. The druids have played him for a fool.

“Honestly, Jonathan,” Katherine says at dinner, chalice to her lips as she surveys their court. “I hear the boy is quite nimble.”

Jonathan chokes on his food.

Charles, who for once is well enough to join them in their feast, laughs from where he sits on his mother’s lap. Today he looks brighter than usual, skin not so pale, but he must still be careful. Sometimes he coughs as Katherine gives him water.

“ _Nimble_?” Jonathan repeats after he composes himself.

“I do not like to repeat myself, husband,” Katherine reminds, setting her chalice down. “But I have heard rumors.”

“ _Rumors_?”

“Listen, my dear Charles, your father is playing the role of a parrot tonight,” Katherine tells Charles, grinning when the boy looks up at her.

Jonathan blinks at her. “He is fucking his way through _my_ court?”

Katherine tilts her head. “Well, _you_ aren’t fucking him. How do you expect the boy to entertain himself?”

Jonathan tries not to gape because Katherine will surely smack him in the mouth for looking like an idiot in front of the court.

“He is a young man,” says Katherine, playing with Charles’s hair. He has rings of beautiful dark curls that touch his shoulders, which only makes him look paler than he really is. If he makes it to adulthood then he will be a fine young man, a fine husband for any princess. “What do you expect for him to spend his days doing?”

Jonathan expects for the boy to spend his days helping in the kitchen, not fucking his way through his court. He feels a sting of anger suddenly, stabbing into his pigeon. The boy said that he wouldn’t allow any other man to father his children, and yet, he is spreading his legs for every man in court.

“Ah,” says Katherine, leaning back in her chair. “This upsets you, dear husband?”

“Be quiet,” warns Jonathan, but Katherine has never been frightened of him. She is a strong woman who’s never had an illusion that she would be _just_ a queen. She has ruled by his side as his equal for ten years now, their wedding and then their coronations happening within six months of each other. They had been children when Jonathan’s father had died, passing the throne onto him.

He would not be the man and king he is today without her by his side.

“You do not pay attention to court gossip,” says Jonathan, reaching for Charles who comes to him easily. His own father had been distant and cold to him, looking at him as only a pawn in the ever-changing political landscape. He had been raised by tutors and a governess, and he refuses to allow his only son to know that coldness. “Why do _these_ rumors humor you?”

Katherine grins slyly, looking out at the court. “Your discomfort amuses me, like usual.” There is more to it, Jonathan knows. Katherine does not worry herself with court gossip unless it has some sort of benefit to her, but he lets the conversation drop. He will eventually find out what his Queen is planning.

Instead he busies himself with Charles. At twenty months, the boy has lived the longest out of all of his children. He is small, limbs feeble and heart weak, but the boy has a heart of a lion. He has survived bouts of sickness that would have taken even the strongest of men to the afterworld, but Jonathan knows that it will be a miracle if Charles makes it to his second birth day; he is strong today, but tomorrow he could be dead, and if— _when_ —Charles dies, he will childless, sonless, _heirless_.

He _needs_ sons.

Strong, healthy sons that will live longer than their second birth day. Sons who will one day rule in his stead.

He needs sons and Katherine cannot give them to him.

He downs his drink.

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

The little mouse is surprisingly easy to find.

He spends most of his time in the kitchens, and that’s where Jonathan finds him, bent over a table kneading dough. There is a boy clutching his pant leg, fat thumb shoved into his mouth as he sobs. The little mouse is mostly ignoring him, but he pauses momentarily from time to time to smooth his hand over the boy’s hair. In that moment he reminds Jonathan of his own mother, and of Katherine, both impossibly stern and unmoved by tantrums, but still unbearably loving.

The boy eventually pulls his thumb from his mouth, turning to catch Jonathan in the doorway. He tugs at Patrick’s leg, drawing the druid’s attention away from kneading the dough. His face is gentle until he takes notice of Jonathan.

“Your Grace,” he says, voice cold. “Richard and I have yet to finish the bread.”

“I do not wish for any bread,” says Jonathan, finding the smear of flour on Patrick’s cheek oddly endearing. “I have come to speak with you. Where is the boy’s mother?”

Patrick wipes his hands on his pants before he picks the boy up. “I do not know where Richard’s mother is, or his father.” He grins at the boy, smoothing the hair from his face. “I suppose he is mine now.”

“You’ve adopted the child?”

“He is mine now,” Patrick repeats, dismissive.

Jonathan does not remember seeing Richard before, but then again, he does not remember many of the children he’s seen before. There are too many, he thinks—too many to remind him of the children he has lost.

But Patrick is here, standing before him with a boy in his arms, and a womb he promises will give him sons—sons who will not die before they take their first breath or immediately after. “The sons you have promised me. They will live?”

Patrick seems surprised by the question, but the surprise only lasts a moment. He sets Richard down, patting the boy’s behind to send him off towards what Jonathan assumes is his meager rooms in the kitchens. He will have to be moved eventually if he is to carry the sons of a king, even if those sons are bastards.

“They will live,” answers Patrick, head high, voice unwavering.

And that—Patrick’s unwavering, unmoving assurance that his children will live—sets Jonathan’s fate in stone. “I will summon you when the time is right.”

Patrick does nothing but nod.

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Jonathan has Patrick moved from his room in the kitchen to the rooms that used to belong to his aunt. The rooms are not made for a queen and need airing out, but they are larger than what the boy is used to and will do until he makes good on his promise.

Richard moves with Patrick into the rooms, along with the other children of the castle who are either parentless, penniless, or simply unwanted. The little mouse is running an orphanage out of his rooms, but instead of being annoyed by dirty children constantly running amuck, Jonathan is endeared.

Patrick’s heart is large, and he wishes only the best for these children, even going as far as to swallow his pride and ask Jonathan for an allowance, a gift that is only reserved for members of the royal household or the unofficial mistress.

“The children need tutors,” the little mouse says. “They will need to be educate if we are to make good marital matches for them.”

“ _We_?” repeats Jonathan.

Patrick nods. “ _We_ , Your Grace.”

“They are not my children,” says Jonathan, but he already feels his resolve slipping. Providing an allowance for the children’s education will be his charitable act for the year. “You may have the money, little mouse.”

Patrick smiles the tiniest of grateful smiles before he tips forward, kissing the corner of Jonathan’s mouth. “You truly are a noble king, Your Grace,” he says and then he’s off, scooping up a child he had brought with him to Jonathan’s antechamber on his way out.

Jonathan supposes that will be the last that he sees of the druid for a few days. Despite their closer proximity, the little mouse spends most of his time in his rooms or out in the fields with Sunyei. Jonathan is preoccupied with matters of state and has little time for anything else unless interrupted, but the little mouse is cunning driven to get what he wants.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise for Jonathan to find the little mouse in his bed that night, but it _does_ because Jonathan is not used to a boy so blunt and rash about what he wants.

“You do not have to repay me for your children’s allowance,” says Jonathan, the words coming out harsher than he means to, but it’s been years since he’s had to sweet talk a boy who’s crawled naked into his bed.

“I will repay you for nothing you give me, Your Grace,” says Patrick, lounging in Jonathan’s bed like he’s always belonged there, smirking at him from under a thin sheet.

Jonathan takes a seat in his favorite chair, pulling off his boots. “You are bold for such a little mouse.”

“You said you would summon me when the time is right,” says Patrick, sitting up, the sheet sliding down until it covers only his thighs. The boy is tempting, Jonathan cannot deny that. His skin is pale, blemish free except for the golden ring through his right nipple which is pink and taut from the air. “But the time is never right for you, Your Grace. You are afraid of what you cannot see and what you do not know.”

“You expect for me to follow a prophecy blindly,” Jonathan says, feeling his blood boil. “To sire you sons and conquer you worlds and neither you nor Elfed stopped to think, to _ask_ , if this was something that _I_ wanted.”

Patrick stares, mouth turning up into a smirk. “Are you truly a man, Your Grace? A naked boy crawls into your bed, willing to spread his legs and give you as many sons as you wish, and yet you complain?”

“You mock me!”

“Hush now, my King,” comforts Patrick, reaching for him, and despite Jonathan’s anger, he goes to the boy; the druid must have him under some sort of wicked spell. “I do not wish to upset my king, but this is your destiny. I know you think me a scoundrel, but I will not go away, not until I am given what I want, and what I want is you.”

“What you want is my cock and my seed,” answers Jonathan, moody, feeling completely unhinged and controlled by this druid mouse. He wants to banish the boy from his kingdom, send him to the mountains where he will spread his legs and give another man sons, but the thought angers him—the little mouse is _his_ gift. “I will give you your sons.”

Patrick smirks in triumphant, pulling Jonathan into the trappings of his own bed.


End file.
